


we're both made of similar stuff

by cyclothimic



Series: how much to give (how much to take) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Clint Is a Good Bro, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Natasha Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Red Room, Romance, Steve Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyclothimic/pseuds/cyclothimic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He figured out that she was pretending that she didn't know him at all; that they hadn't spent nights in utter bliss in each other's arms; that they had never been trapped in the Red Room together. She was pretending that they were strangers who merely meet in the shooting range in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're both made of similar stuff

**Author's Note:**

> after more than one month, i finally got around to writing the second part!
> 
> oh and just to be clear, i didn't identify Bucky in this story with his name is because this is written in his POV and he's struggling with some identity issues. you should be able to know who is who. if there's any confusion, i apologize in advance.

" _James, you found me."_

_-Natasha Romanoff (Name of the Rose)_

* * *

He spent years – decades – frozen in suspended animation. Each time he came out of cryogenic state, he had no memories of his past or his present; no expectations for his future. He would only know he had a prosthetic metal arm for a left arm and he worked for Hydra.

" _You are to bring aid to mankind_ ," was what they would always say when he woke up. And then they would shove a brown file into his hand and make him read it and give him a limited timeline to pull it off. He never failed.

Even though he retained memories that were next to nothing, he had no doubt that he wouldn't be able to calculate his body count with his two hands. He had recollections: senators, scientists, rebels, men, women and  _children_. He didn't know if he felt remorse when he killed those people; he hoped he did.

However, in spite of all those lost memories, all those murders, whenever he was allowed to sleep like a normal human being – on a normal bed with normal (albeit scratchy) sheets and a normal pillow – he would dream.

 _Red. Black. A pair of soft lips. Sultry jade green eyes. Deep, soft and hoarse voice talking to him about menial things. A body to die for, on top of him, in front of him, beneath him. Trilling laughter he never got tired of_.

Dreams would always be dreams, however. They were never real. They would never last. He would always wake up. And then he would kill again.

James Buchanan Barnes was and would always be the Winter Soldier.

* * *

He took his time, exploring the world. He went to Budapest; spent two days in Tahiti; secluded himself in a Brooklyn hotel. In the deepest part of his mind, he was looking for something. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. But he was always looking, eyes darting everywhere for that something he didn't know of.

He'd been out of cryogenic state for too long and he didn't go back to the godforsaken bank, which meant he would be invaded at times by memories. They weren't chronological. They were random. Sometimes, he'd remember his time as the Winter Soldier. Sometimes, as Bucky.

" _I'm with you until the end of the line, pal._ "

" _Bucky, no girls would want me._ "

" _Sergeant Barnes_."

" _Oh, James_."

 _James_. A woman, flaming red hair, addictive green eyes, full red lips: the woman of his dreams. He would recall her tangled with him in a squeaky bed. He would remember them sparring with animosity but grinning like lovesick fools. He would recollect her sweet, sweet laughter in his ears on the rare occasion that they had fun.

That woman became his trigger to actually start remembering. He went to the Smithsonian once more. He hid his face in libraries as he perused the computers. He dug through all the SHIELD secrets dumped on the Internet.

And then he found her face and was introduced to her name.

 _Natasha Romanoff_.

The name sounded so familiar and yet so strange. He pronounced it a few times, tasted it on his tongue, heard it in his head. He liked it, he decided. But he wasn't sure it was right. But this woman, this woman with the cold green eyes and the thin red lips on the screen, she was the woman of his dreams.

And he had no doubt he needed her like he needed air.

* * *

It was as if the name triggered something in his head. That night, he was attacked by an onslaught of memories. They were all muddled and messy and garish and he thought he would die right there from the roaring ache at the base of his skull.

He read somewhere online that he could chronicle his memories by meditating or simply falling asleep without losing his consciousness. That made sense. So he bought a mouth-guard and forced himself to lie in his bed with it between his teeth and took deep breaths, falling into a dark and quiet pit. And then he was falling but he knew he was asleep. He dug around his brains for the voices, the pictures, Steve, Peggy,  _the woman_ ; basically everything he could remember.

The Internet didn't say how excruciating and vexatious the throbbing in his head would be. The Internet didn't mention the crushing convulsion in his side that came and went in rhythmic but huge tsunamis. The Internet did not tell him about the flashes behind his eyes and the obscene loudness of the voices in his head.

He decided he would take the mind wiping over this any other day. Nevertheless, he also knew he desperately needed this, which was why he procured the mouth-guard.

Four hours were how long it took for him to manage to unscramble the messy puzzle and refit the pieces, creating a matching one (albeit with a few missing pieces). He jolted into the real world: dark room, annoying clock ticking its seconds on the bedside table, his pistol next to the clock and a half-empty glass of water.

Steve, Peggy, the Howling Commandos and all the rest would call him Bucky or Barnes or Sergeant Barnes. Before his fall from the train, he enjoyed nightly drunken stupors with those shitholes because they were his best pals. He made bets with the Howling Commandos on how long it would take for Steve and Peggy to get their shit together and just do their dance already. He was Bucky Barnes, the happy-go-lucky, reckless and loyal stud and soldier.

And then his recklessness brought him his demise. He fell and was collected by the German. He had his arm sawed off just for the sake of it and he had a metal arm replaced. It was hefty and strong. He was puppet. However, his recklessness also brought him the brightest light of his life in the darkest place of his existence. He couldn't remember his own name. He only knew himself as James.

" _I will not let them dictate us._ "

" _I'm tainted_."

No, she was red. She was blood. She was the purest thing in his life. He loved her. In all his killing and slaughter and hitting and basic monstrosity, she was the one thing that brought red to his black,  _black_  heart. She gave him purpose. He lived for her. He didn't try to get himself killed while killing others because he wanted to live for her.

 _Natalia_.

His eyes snapped open. He had somewhere to be.

* * *

He didn't know if he wanted to be Bucky or James.

* * *

Ultron. He watched the Avengers on live broadcast on the TV as he was on the plane to New York. Now that he regained his memories of his two lives and reconciled them, he allowed himself the luxury of smirking in pride as he watched Steve throwing his SHIELD like a Frisbee. He didn't stop from darting his eyes for a flash of familiar crimson.

When he saw it, saw  _her_ , his lips curved into an inevitable clarifying grin as he whispered, " _Natalia_."

* * *

Six months later – because he knew that they (mostly Natalia and Steve) would be dead tired after the whole nearly dying at the hands of Ultron ordeal and maybe he should just lay low and get a taste of simple New Yorker life before he gave them possible heart attacks – he was standing at the bottom of the Avengers tower.

His head was craned upwards as he gazed at the huge 'A' perched at the top of the big, ugly building. He couldn't help but recall a show he'd watched in his hotel room last night: there were four girls and one pretty mean one and there was like a person named 'A' threatening them, as if those threats could really ruin a person's life. They had no idea how truly terrifying real life could be.

He took five – he counted – strides to the front door and release a soft scoff when he saw a button, obviously the doorbell. A skyscraper like this with all kinds of technology inside, and there was a damn fucking doorbell. He wasn't sure if that was pathetic or what. He pulled a hand out from his jacket pocket, tugged on the bill of the cap he snagged from a sleeping beggar, and then reached out to the doorbell.

But then he halted, fingers brushing the button but not pressing it.

Should he press it? Once he pushed down on the button, there would be no going back. Steve, Natalia, basically everyone would know he's back. Did they deserve to entertain a mess like him? Despite the return of his memories, he was still extremely unstable. He still had desires to inflict pain and commit acts of violence. There were times when he would bounce back to who he was as the Winter Soldier.

They obviously had a good life as who they were now, even though they were really just two people out of time. They were heroes. Steve was Captain America, the first Avenger. Natalia was Natasha – he still didn't like it – the Black Widow. They'd saved the world thrice now, once from that trick god, once from Ultron and once from  _him_.

"Doorbell's a hoax," a slightly disembodied and gruff voice announced from behind him.

He turned slowly, body stiff and ready to fight. He fixed the red and yellow suit of armor with a steely glare: Iron Man. Tony Stark, as in Howard Stark's son. It figured that a genius like Howard Stark would reproduce a greater genius like Tony Stark. He blocked out the memories so he would keel over to apologize because  _god_ , his hands were the ones that robbed the man in front of him of a family.

Tony tilted his head. "You look familiar." He remained motionless. "I completely respect your need for privacy because I've been there. I wore a Barbie limited edition watch when I was in disguise so yeah, I guess I've got it worse. But you're here, like right at the bottom of my building and no one's ever dared to even want to press the bell before except for the residents and my girlfriend and Fury and Hill and Coulson. So I really need to know who you are."

He was confused for a few moments and then he realized Tony couldn't see his face because of his cap. He clenched his fists. Would Tony feel homicidal towards him if he saw his face? He wouldn't blame Tony. He reached up and pulled the cap back, not taking it off but enough to reveal his facial features.

"Oh." He couldn't see Tony behind the mask. He couldn't see if Tony was angry or surprised. Tony flew nearer and he stood his ground. "I don't really care if you mind but I really do deserve this."

Sharp pain rang out in his head as he was knocked back. And then it was all dark.

* * *

"Wake up, Bucky."

The grogginess wore off in seconds. His body was just too enhanced to be out for too long. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself slumped on a sleek black couch with Steve looming over him. Steve looked wary but he was smiling. Tony was standing over Steve's shoulder, arms crossed over his chest and Bucky (James? He couldn't decide) was still unable to decipher his features.

"Hey," Steve greeted and helped to lift him into an upright position. "You came back."

Bucky stared at him, unwilling to let his emotions leak. So he just nodded to confirm Steve's obvious statement.

"Where've you been?" He stayed quiet, silent. He saw Steve. Now, he wanted to see someone else. His mouth was wet and his throat was well moisturized, but he couldn't speak. Steve, sensing his hesitation, relented and moved on. "Why are you here?"

Why was he here?  _Natalia_. And Steve. But,  _more Natalia_. He locked his gaze on his best friend – maybe; he wasn't sure if Steve was his best friend any longer – and took him in. Steve had cut his hair, grown more buff, dressed clothes that barely fit him – not because he was too skinny, but because he was too big – and he recognized the tinge of sadness in Steve's eyes. He recognized it because he'd look at himself in the mirror too often and saw it in his own eyes.

Something came over him and he leaped up, engulfing Steve in a strong embrace. Steve was stiff at first but then that familiar laugh escaped his throat and he hugged him back. He planted his chin firmly on Steve's shoulder and hugged the hell out of the man, his brother, his best friend and his partner in crime.

"I missed you too, bud," Steve said the words he couldn't say.

He did miss his best friend. He missed tossing skinny Steve over his shoulder and running in mud water with him. He missed drinking with Steve even though he couldn't get drunk. He missed talking to Steve about dames and life in general.

It didn't mean he could handle skin contact that was too long. And this was too long. The sweat gathered on his forehead and he felt like he was about to pass out. He quickly extracted himself from Steve and swung around, wrapping his jacket tighter around him and pulling on the bill of his cap further downwards.

Several minutes later, he started when someone patted his shoulder and he swiveled around too fast that he stumbled back a few steps, which made him collapse onto the couch. Steve looked worried and shocked. He raised his hands in the air as an appeasing gesture and nodded.

"Take your time, Bucks."

He took harsh and quick breaths, each one deeper than the last one. But he just…he yearned for her touch. She was the one who could calm him.

" _Natalia_ ," he whispered, his voice rusty from lack of use.

"Who?" Steve asked.

He glanced upward at his best friend, probably looking as desperate as he felt right now. " _Natalia_."

"Natalia?" Steve reiterated, confused.

"I think I know who he meant," Tony spoke for the first time since he woke up. They both glanced towards the man who had uncrossed his arms and looked as if he was trying to really hard to hone in whatever emotions he was feeling. Anger, he deduced. Tony huffed a breath and jerked his head to his right. "I'll give her a call."

After he was gone, Steve looked back to him and asked, "Who's Natalia?"

_She was red. She was blood. She was the purest thing in his life._

* * *

He found a piece of paper on the coffee table. He tore it into smaller and smaller and smaller pieces until Steve snatched them out of his hand. He gnawed on his lower lip, harder and harder as each ten minutes went past them until Steve gave him a cup of water. He darted his eyes around, frantic and searching, taking in the flat screen TV and the leather stiff couches and the windows and everything until Steve stepped into his view.

Tony joined them somewhere between the forty-three minutes and twenty-six seconds that they had to wait. He barely noticed the man entering the room.

He had his head in his hands when the elevator dinged from his right. He heard the firm and confident clicking of heels on the floor nearing them. He could recognize the way she always carried herself, confident even when unsure. He lifted his head and turned to her direction.

She halted abruptly, entire body tensing. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his face. It was like she saw a ghost. He figured he was kind of like a ghost, having been a shadow for decades. Her jaw was marginally opened as she stared at him, unblinking.

" _Natalia_."

* * *

" _It's like you're the only one who can help him."_

" _I am_ _ **not**_ _, Rogers!"_

" _He barely responds to me. And he was looking for_ _ **you**_ _."_

" _That doesn't mean anything!"_

" _How do you two know each other anyway?"_

" _Steve, he's your best friend. He's_ _ **yours**_ _. Don't push him to me."_

" _He wants you!"_

" _Well, I – I can't._ _ **Steve**_ _, I can't do this."_

" _Why? What happened? How do you even know him? Why does he call you Natalia?"_

" _Jesus Christ."_

They weren't exactly quiet. They were in the room Tony was in just now and they left the door ajar and they were whisper-shouting and he could hear every word. He was hurt, to be honest. He'd wanted her to welcome him with open arms. But he knew he had a lot of redeem and he couldn't blame her.

He would never blame her.

And then she stormed out of the room, not even sparing him one glance as she approached the elevator and went down again. He sat there, eyes fixed on the closed doors of the elevator. He willed for it to open and to reveal her again and have her hug him and kiss him and just tell him everything would be okay.

"You killed my parents." He looked away and to Tony who had been standing there like a statue the whole time. Tony was full on glaring now. He remained expressionless; it was all he could do. "I have every right to put a blade right in your chest right now."

He clenched his jaw. Tony should definitely do that. He closed his eyes, browsing the archive he had in his head to find that particular file. The memory of him tampering with the Stark vehicle and driving the other car that ran into their car; he could still hear the sound of the metal denting, the metallic whine of the wheels resisting the collision and them dying.

He opened his eyes and Tony had his hands clenched in hard fists. He unclasped his hands from each other and opened his arms wide, his palms outstretched. He was welcoming Tony to do just that. After all, Natalia didn't want him. He didn't understand this world. He wanted to hit and punch and kill and that wasn't right. He wouldn't resist when Tony did exactly that.

He'd survived longer than he was supposed to. He wasn't sure how Steve and Natalia did it – how  _she_  did it, because as far as he knew, she'd never been on ice and she was never frozen, she actually lived all these years ( _decades_ ). But he was tired. He wanted out. He didn't want TVs with Technicolor. He didn't want vehicles with the most bizarre designs he'd ever seen. He didn't want crazy billboards in the middle of the night. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be able to hug Steve without wincing. He wanted Natalia.

But then Steve came out and stopped Tony from taking another step towards him. He managed to convince Tony to let him live on Steve's floor. He took the elevator with Steve and he was showed to the guest bedroom.

There was a bed, an en-suite bedroom, a wardrobe, a dresser and bedside table. It was generic and strange and that was what he needed.

"Look, I don't know what your deal with Natasha is."  _Natalia_ , he corrected in his mind. "I'll try to talk to her again. She isn't as mean as she looks."  _No, she's soft and kind and beautiful and she was his_. "But right now, you're here with me. Talk to me if you need anything and I mean  _anything_. We're all having dinner at seven later. If you want to join, I'll see you outside at six forty-five, alright?"

He offered a curt nod. Steve clapped him gently on his back a few times before getting out.

* * *

He didn't join them. He spent around six hours in the vast room Steve had put him in, pacing and staring at the ceiling and scribbling invisible words on the window with his finger. His hat and jacket were carelessly tossed on the bed. He didn't attempt to explore the place.

Who was he? Was he Bucky? Was he James? Was he the Soldier? In the end, he settled for cradling his head with his palms, pressing the heel of his hands into his eye sockets. At one point, he heard the door open and he presumed it was Steve. A few seconds later, it closed. The room darkened along with the setting of the sun. The beeps of vehicles and the chatters of citizens and the annoying modern songs drifted into his ears, vibrating his eardrums.

When he finally straightened up, the clock on the bedside table said that it was two in the morning. He smelled like a skunk and he was certain he looked like a hobo. He stood up and slide the wardrobe door open. There were plain T-shirts on the grey scale hung in it, several pairs of sweatpants, underwear, a hairdryer and three clean towels. He grabbed a grey T-shirt from its hanger, a pair of charcoal sweatpants, underwear and one of the towels before heading into the bathroom.

The assortment of buttons and functions available in the shower was mind boggling. He blinked at the panel and glared at it, as if it would turn on of its own accord if he placed enough animosity behind his glare.

Fucking hell, Stark.

He jabbed at a few buttons but nothing happened. He jabbed more until water started spraying out of the shower head. He smirked to himself proudly and went under the shower.

But he still knew that no matter how much he washed himself, his ledger would never be clean.

* * *

He didn't know how but twenty minutes later, he found himself outside a dull looking metal door. He could hear the vague sounds of a gun behind the door. The rapid and whizzing resonance as each bullet flew through the air rented the still night air. There was a thrill rushing in his blood as he listened. He stood there, ear pressed against the door and just listened.

He missed holding a weapon and firing it.

"I know you're out there." His eyes shot open. Natalia was the one inside. She sighed inside. "Come in before I shoot you through the door."

He couldn't help but smile. Of course she'd know. He taught her well. He wiped the smile away and opened the door. She was standing in one of the cubicles, earmuffs around her neck and goggles brushed back through her hair. She was leaning against the barrier and staring at him, expressionless. He remained his ground, uncertain of his next action.

She clenched her jaw visibly and as she took in air through her nostrils, her chest rattled uneasily. She looked away first and he instantly missed those green orbs. He wanted to speak her name but he knew she still wasn't ready, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for her to make the first move.

She closed her eyes, resting her head against the barrier she was leaning against, and breathed for the next twenty seconds. When she opened her eyes, they were void of emotions. She jerked her head towards the direction of the opposite wall and he followed her eyes. He was slightly amazed at the arsenal of weapons displayed on the wall, arranged neatly by their categories: machine guns, submachine guns, glocks etc.

"Let's go a couple of rounds," she said tersely. She waved the pistol she'd been practicing with just now: a Browning 9 millimeter semi-automatic. "Choose your weapon."

He stepped into the room with her permission and faced the wall, taking in the weapons displayed. Normally, he would have been wary of having his backs towards people who knew how to hold a gun, but he trusted her despite the fact that she did not trust him. Finally, he chose a standard issue military pistol, a Beretta M9.

He locked and loaded it, got himself a pair of earmuffs and goggles for himself, and turned around to face her. She nodded, still stony as ever and turned back around to face the target zone.

He drank in the sight of her shapely figure from the back without shame. Even in a baggy shirt and a pair of cotton trousers, she still managed to get a reaction out of him. He swallowed as he got flashbacks of her on his lap, his hands over her smooth alabaster thighs and their animalistic noises mashed into one.

The sound of her cartridge locking into her pistol snapped him out of his heated memories and he hurried to the cubicle next to hers. He put on his earmuffs and goggles and readied himself.

Then they started shooting.

* * *

They met in the shooting range every night for the following two weeks. They didn't make an agreement or even talked. As a matter of fact, ever since that night, they hadn't spoken one word to each other. But they would meet every night at the shooting range at two in the morning without fail.

Even when she had missions and she would return late, she would still be in the shooting range without fail. Sixty years later, she was still able to not miss a target. Her aiming was precise and each shot was made without hesitation. Her confidence was the first thing that attracted him to her all this time.

He figured out that she was pretending that she didn't know him at all; that they hadn't spent nights in utter bliss in each other's arms; that they had never been trapped in the Red Room together. She was pretending that they were strangers who merely meet in the shooting range in the middle of the night.

There were several times when he would catch her looking at him with longing. He could still read her as easily as he could sixty years ago. Her lips would be straighter than ruler and her eyes would fill with ache and sorrow. He would ignore those looks because he also knew that she still wasn't ready.

* * *

Steve bought him books on the history. He bought him some clothes and jackets and a few pair of jeans. Steve told him about his experiences in this new world since he woke up from his seventy-year coma. It almost felt like old times. Steve had asked once about his service with Hydra. He refused to tell Steve. He didn't want Steve to know about the darkness and inhumanity he and Natalia had to go through while they were there. Steve had had enough on his plate.

Tony had, one way or another, stopped hating him. Maybe Steve had talked to him or something. But the first day he joined them for breakfast – the fourth day of his arrival – Tony had pretended their exchange four days ago didn't happen. He was invited to the lab so Tony and Bruce could check out on his arm and give him a brain scan to see if any damages were done.

Steve was there with them in the lab just in case.

"My dad lost two friends in less than a week," Tony said casually as he drew up holograms of his brain scan. "You and the old ticker over there." He pointed at Steve who rolled his eyes. "You didn't kill my parents." They looked into each other's eyes, Tony with clarity and he with confusion. "The Winter Soldier did. And I think you deserve a chance to redeem the Soldier."

Tony's words, in spite of how careless and laidback they sounded, had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

"And I'll help you talk to the Widow."

* * *

Five days into his arrival, the eagle invited him for a talk. They sat in a quaint room with rusty mechanics laying around a bow and arrows carefully situated on a table. He realized they were in Barton's very own operating center, despite how small it was.

"I know Nat wasn't born in 1982," were the first words Barton said.

He was quiet.

"I know you two have a complex history that none of us would ever be able to understand." He was quiet.

"She loved you." He lifted his eyes to Barton's face who looked pained at the thought of his tormented best friend. "She has been in a lot of pain since she lost you. Out of all of us, she's the one who has lost the most and suffered the most painful of torture."

He couldn't agree more.

"Your return has put a lot of things into a different perspective for her. She doesn't know what she was supposed to do. You shot her twice. You didn't know who she was. And now, suddenly you do and she's completely lost."

He clenched his jaw. He missed Natalia.

"Give her time, Barnes."

He nodded. Give Natalia time, he could do that.

* * *

Thor, the God of Thunder – he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that they had a god in their midst – suggested a sparring session to pass the time. Surprisingly, Natalia was the first to agree.

He resisted at first but relented at Barton and Steve's relentless egging. They all filed into the workout room and crowded the sparring mat. Tony decided that they would decide their sparring opponents by drawing names.

As luck would have it, she drew his. Their eyes met across the room and he nodded curtly. She responded with a nod of her own.

"Don't go easy on her, Barnes," Barton egged on by the mat when it was their turn.

Natalia smirked and nodded in agreement to Barton's statement. And then they got into fighting positions. He felt lightness in his chest when he saw the familiar mischievous glint in her eyes. He hadn't seen that look in decades. And then she smacked him on his waist and they started.

She was swift; he was sharp. She ambushed; he deflected. He jabbed; she blocked. It was a familiar dance between them. They'd had this dance so many times they could anticipate each other's moves. For the first time, their faces broke into delighted smiles.

They were meant to fight each other.

* * *

That night, he sat in the armchair, looking out the window. He was waiting for two in the morning. His finger touched the tender split on his lip and despite the sharp pain it sent through his nerves, he smiled.

His head swiveled to the door in alarm when it creaked open. She came in with a first aid kit in her hand. He stared at her, surprised and curious. She hesitated at the door as she stared back at him. Then she entered, closing the door behind her. She approached him and pulled the chair from the dresser in front of him. She put the kit on the floor next to the chair and sat down.

"Come here," she muttered.

He obeyed, leaning forward to be near her. He would take any chance to be near her. She gingerly touched his cheek and he closed his eyes, restraining from sobbing at the touch. He missed her touch so much. Her hand was soft and gentle as she examined his split lip. He released a shuddering breath when she touched his lip with her thumb.

He didn't open her eyes, afraid that she would be gone if he did. He listened as the first aid kit opened and she sifted through the items inside. A bottle popped and there was liquid pouring. He finally opened his eyes when he felt a cotton ball pressed against his split lip.

Their eyes met in close range, his blue to her green. Her eyes were telling him that she was struggling with trepidations and doubt. She was unsure of him. But there was also desire. She still wanted him. Their breaths mingled in the closed space between them, forming into one ball of energy. His fingers twitched but he didn't reach out. Their knees were pressed together.

She put down the cotton ball when she was done but she didn't break the eye contact.

He swallowed and frowned just a little. "Natalia," he whispered hoarsely.

She grimaced briefly, pained. He didn't want to hurt her. He lifted his right arm from his knee and he reached up, lingering inches from her face. She was tense. He smiled in relief as she naturally leaned into his touch when he caressed her cheek. Her skin was baby soft and tender.

"Don't be afraid of me," he stated in a hoarse whisper.

She displayed a broken smile as her eyes swam with unshed tears. " _James_."

In a split second, he'd drawn her onto his lap and wrapped one arm around her waist and another around her torso. He pulled her face into his chest as he nuzzled into the top of her head. To have her in his arms like this again, he felt weightless and burden-free. He inhaled her unique scent and smiled to himself. His delight increased when she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest. He shushed her as she silently cried into his warmth.

He missed her.

He loved her.

He was her James.

He didn't want to be anyone else.

He was home.

" _James_."

**Author's Note:**

> happy ending! yay! let's all mentally hug natasha for a few minutes here, okay? i hope you guys enjoy this as much as the previous one! :)
> 
> there might be a third part. i'll think about it!


End file.
